


A Blessed Alternative

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Minor Canonical Character(s), Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They crown Maric and Rowan in bright, vibrant colors, on a rare day when the sun shines like a benediction. The people of Ferelden are tired, poor, and worn through like an old pair of trousers, but they still turn out in droves to see their heroes. They dance without music, joy pouring from their mouths in songs and leaking from their eyes with tears, and Loghain feels his mouth twitch with pleasurable pride.</p>
<p>((An AU of Kingmaking's "And Thus Declared the Dragon Age"))</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blessed Alternative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kingmaking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingmaking/gifts).



> In which the crux of it all is that Loghain decides to be selfish.

**I.**

They crown Maric and Rowan in bright, vibrant colors, on a rare day when the sun shines like a benediction. The people of Ferelden are tired, poor, and worn through like an old pair of trousers, but they still turn out in droves to see their heroes. They dance without music, joy pouring from their mouths in songs and leaking from their eyes with tears, and Loghain feels his mouth twitch with pleasurable pride. He isn’t standing on the dais – the Revered Mother wouldn’t let him, much as Maric insisted he deserved to stand in front of the public as much as they did. Instead, he stands to the side, gleaming in the armor he’d taken by right, stiff and brimming with moral fortitude.

Maric’s crown barely touches his head before the crowd bursts into raucous applause and screaming. He smiles, a bit anxious, but his people don’t know him like Loghain does. All they see is a king like something out of a children’s story, golden and beautiful, with his lovely wife at his side. When they place her crown, Rowan dips her head respectfully, looking as though she doesn’t hear the renewed bellow echoing throughout the square. Her eyes open on Loghain’s, catching his gaze.

She smiles.

He smiles, then, too.

 

**II.**

Maric and Rowan had arranged everything between themselves before they even approached Loghain, several days after Maric learned of Katriel’s betrayal. They brought him a plan and a series of rebuttals already prepared for his inevitable protests, which he made several times anyway.

“We knew,” he had said, one hand gripping the back of a chair, “we knew that one day our… that this would have to end. I promised I would make way when it came time for you to take the throne.”

“A promise neither of us asked for,” Maric replied. He looked exhausted, with purple bruises beginning to blossom under his eyes, but his gaze was serious and alert. Rowan brushed Maric’s arm with a hand. The intimacy of the gesture made Loghain’s stomach lurch.

“Set aside the nature of our relationship, then,” Rowan said, quelling Maric’s sharp noise with a quiet, “for the moment. We told you once that we could not do this without you. We meant it. Things are only going to get harder from here. Your friendship has brought us victories, even saved our lives, more than once. We aren’t going to stop needing you just because they put a bit of metal on our heads.”

“So what would that make me? An advisor?”

“Yes,” Maric said.

“Potentially.”

Loghain frowned. “You would make me… You remember where I come from? Where you found me?”

“Of course I do.” Maric reached to grip Loghain’s elbow, giving him a little reassuring shake. He thought twice about throwing him off, and settled instead for refusing to return the touch. “Loghain, your background is no worse than either of ours. I grew up on the run, too, in forests and camps, not in a palace. No one would judge you for not being born a noble.”

“They might even hail you for it,” Rowan added. “A true hero of the people, someone they can relate to. Kings and queens are too lofty for such things. Yet another reason why we need you.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Clearing his throat, Maric withdrew his hand and looped a few fingers into his own belt, flexing them. The heat of his palm felt branded on Loghain’s skin.

“There’s also the teyrnship of Gwaren,” Maric said, “if you would rather have a territory of your own. Say the word and it’s yours, as soon as we win this war. After that, we would trouble you no more. We… understand.”

Loghain knew what his answer should be. He thought of a lifetime playing shadow to the radiant king and queen, of watching them sit together on twin thrones and feeling as if he did not belong. He pictured spending his days in Gwaren, alone but kept busy, rebuilding the town, meeting with his new vassals, perhaps finding a wife, starting a family… His thoughts even turned to Katriel, banished, perhaps congratulating herself on her clean escape, or perhaps pining after her lost love.

“Give me time,” he said, surprising himself. “Let me think. A few days.”

To his mild irritation, they had obviously expected him to pick Gwaren right away. Maric sighed with relief, beaming. Rowan smiled, too, with a gracious nod that would serve her well when she became queen.

“As much time as you need,” Rowan said. Her fingers brushed against his as she left the room, a deliberate action if the sideways glance she shot him meant anything. The touch burned him just as Maric’s had, searing him inside and out.

Who was he, to deny his sovereigns? In the end, he told them yes.

 

**III.**

“He’s drunk,” Loghain says, unable to keep a disapproving note out of his tone. Down on one knee, Bryce Cousland attempts another subtle grab at Eleanor Mac Eanraig’s hand, warbling his way through _The Soldier and the Seawolf_. She flushes, avoids his grasping, and shoots a stricken glance in their direction. Loghain can’t hear what she says, lost in the din as it is, but he imagines she must be begging him to stop. Bryce shakes his head, and starts on the second verse with renewed gusto.

“No,” Rowan says, a laugh tugging at one corner of her mouth, “but Maric might be.”

Loghain leans forward to look at the seat on Rowan’s other side. Red-faced, Maric tries and fails not to laugh, wearing an expression of pure delight. In spite of himself, the sight of it makes Loghain smile, too. He’s happier than either of them has seen him in what feels like years, at home even with a crown sitting a little lopsided on his head. It gives Loghain a fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach, something that feels unmistakably like hope. Rowan, smiling at Maric indulgently, seems to feel it, too.

From so far away, Eleanor probably mistakes Maric’s change in hue for anger. Her eyes dart to the high table more times than Loghain can count in less than half a minute. In the middle of the third verse, she bends down and seizes both of Bryce’s hands in her own, whispering something that makes him stop on a strangled, half-formed note. With a whoop, he jumps to his feet and kisses her, one hand on her cheek and the other at her waist. Eleanor, looking much less put upon, kisses him again.

“She said yes!” Bryce calls, lifting her into his arms and spinning her around.

Maric cheers louder than anyone else. He makes a point to hug them both, clapping Bryce on the back, and his enthusiasm colors the rest of the evening and most of the night.

After the festivities are over, much later than anyone anticipated, the three of them blearily find their way to their rooms. The royal wing of the palace is still undergoing repairs, so for now they’ve been placed in a private corner, out of nearly everyone’s way. It suits them fine. One hand in Rowan’s and the other rooted in Loghain’s tunic, Maric drags them both into a bedroom at random.

“Still haven’t sobered up?” Loghain asks dryly, enduring Maric’s head on his shoulder as he smothers a laugh.

“I’m not drunk,” he says, with no heat behind the words. “I’m… I’m just glad. I had thought… can you imagine…? What would I have done…?” He turns to kiss Rowan, and then turns again to kiss Loghain. This seems to put his thoughts back in order. “I think I might have died.”

He doesn’t explain. Instead, he collapses with a bounce onto the mattress, still laughing as if all his senses have abandoned him. Rowan laughs, too. Taking Loghain’s hand, she leads him to where Maric waits, arms outstretched toward them both.

 

**IV.**

No one guesses. No one even dreams. The sight of Maric, Rowan, and Loghain together, discussing treaties, planning construction – it makes people smile. In taverns all over the country, they sing songs and tell stories of this famous friendship, of Maric the Savior, Rowan the Red, and the Hero of River Dane.

Not one of the songs gets the facts quite right. Fearing reprimand, troubadours say nothing of the elf woman, whose name Loghain tries to forget. Most focus more heavily on the glories and triumphs of their campaign rather than the bloody, dismal, messy parts where hope seemed all but gone.

If anyone hears tell of the way Loghain frequents the royal chamber, more often even than an advisor should, it isn’t spread around.

 

**V.**

They offer Eamon the teyrnship of Gwaren, as a gesture of good faith. He rejects it, calling himself too young, too inexperienced, so they give him his family’s arling of Redcliffe instead. Teagan begrudgingly accepts the title “Bann,” though he would rather attend tourneys in the Free Marches, and other leftover pieces of Ferelden are parceled out amongst families who deserve them. Gwaren, however, remains lordless for months.

“Surely there must be someone,” Rowan says, rubbing her forehead. “Reconstruction can’t begin unless we have someone we trust to oversee it.”

“No one wants it,” Maric says. “After the last teyrn and his family were executed so brutally, I don’t blame them.”

Rowan mumbles something to herself that sounds like “superstitious nonsense,” probably intending to be overheard. Maric gives her a half-exasperated frown.

“You were willing to raise me to the rank,” Loghain says slowly, thinking as he speaks. Both Rowan and Maric focus their attention on him, looking up at him with trust and fondness in their eyes. It makes him want to shiver. “Find someone without the title, but with the skills you need. Ferelden has more blacksmiths and milkmaids worthy of governing than Orlais has true nobility.”

Rowan laughs. Looking pleased, as if he were the one who’d made her smile, Maric puts one hand on her arm. “It’s not a bad idea, love,” he says. The term of endearment is meant for them both.

The woman they find is a cabinetmaker’s daughter named Celia, reportedly capable and quick-witted, who loves her land with fervor unmatched. After some negotiation by messenger bird, she agrees to come to Denerim and officially receive her title, as well as the commendation of the crown. When Loghain sees her first, it is at the ceremony, when she ascends to shake her king’s hand and swear oaths of fealty. She surprises him, a little. Short and very blond, she looks to be in her early twenties, and he thinks he sees her hand shake a little as she extends it.

In her eyes, though, he sees determination. Her jaw is set firmly, and a thin line streaking her brow shows him she grasps the gravity of the job she’s going to do. It strikes him, very subtly, that he never wants to find himself in an argument with this woman – something tells him she would win.

He likes her, overall. She’ll make a good teyrna.

“She was very young,” Rowan says that night, not meaning it as an insult. At worst, she and Loghain are only five or six years older. “Quite pretty, too, didn’t you think?”

Next to him, Maric snores. One heavy, sleep-weighted arm pins Loghain to the mattress, his face half buried in a pillow. Reaching up to touch his golden hair with one hand, Loghain watches as Rowan gets ready for bed.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

 

**VI.**

 

“You’re serious.”

“Do you think I would joke about this?"

Icy fingers creep around Loghain’s heart, enveloping him slowly with a pressure that builds in his chest and in his throat. He dreads the moment they start to squeeze. How can Rowan sit there, so calm, a quirk in her smile as if she finds his reaction amusing? One hand perches on her belly, the curve so slight Loghain hadn’t even noticed. He swells with a sudden tenderness, and winces as those fingers flex in response.

“Have you told Maric?”

“I thought you might need to know, first. I didn’t want both of you panicking at once, far too overwhelming.”

Panicking? He resents the word; he does not _panic_ , he has measured and reasonable responses. He uses his head, thinks things through logically, just as his mind whirls now with all the options available to them. There are surprisingly few.

“Can you be sure it is Maric’s?”

Rowan laughs. “You know I can’t.”

He can see it, surely as he sees Rowan in front of him now. She holds a babe in her arms, a little girl, with hair as black as pitch and cold blue eyes that look at him with accusation. There will be no way to hide what they’ve been doing. Everyone will know, and no one will look on it kindly. He’s jeopardized their idyllic rule with every moment spent in their arms, how could he be so stupid? It would have been better if he left for Gwaren when they had offered it, those few years ago. Loghain should have locked himself away and hardened his heart, better than ruining everything he loves most with his own two hands.

The frozen grip on his heart tightens again. Even in all the battles he’s fought, he has never wanted to retreat more in his life.

Rowan stands and reaches for him, settling both her hands on his cheeks. “Loghain,” she says, calling him back to himself, grounding him as best she can with only her touch and her voice. “It’s going to be all right.”

Loghain shakes his head. “And if she’s mine?” he rasps, tempted to close his eyes.

“She?” Rowan smiles. When Loghain doesn’t respond, she lets it go. “It doesn’t matter who the father is. The baby will be ours. It’ll grow into a fine, strong leader, and we will all be fine. I promise you that. I promise you. Be happy, Loghain. Be glad for us.”

He tries. For a time, that means lying, something he’s gotten quite good at over the years. His muted enthusiasm rings true enough, and both Rowan and Maric leave well enough alone, either unsuspecting or understanding. He can see worry on their faces, too, when they think no one is watching.

 

**VII.**

“It’s a boy!” Maric cries before he’s even entered the antechamber, his voice passing muffled through heavy doors. Loghain jumps to his feet. “It’s a boy, Loghain, a boy!” Sweating and breathless as he is, Maric sweeps Loghain into a crushing hug and kisses him soundly. Loghain pulls back after a few moments to ask his questions.

“Is he healthy? How is Rowan? Who does…?”

He doesn’t finish this last train of thought. Maric doesn’t notice. Beaming, he kisses him again, takes him by the hand, and fairly drags him back into the room he’d just come from. “She had me wait until they cleaned him up,” he says, fairly babbling, “and the healers are gone. Rowan’s tired, but she wanted you. We want you to see him. Loghain–”

Rowan is sweatier than Maric, but her breathing is even. She looks exhausted.

“Come and see,” she whispers.

Loghain’s feet won’t take him closer, at first. Struggling with himself all the way, he approaches the bed like the condemned walks toward the chopping block.

He’s very small. Little hands and little feet stir in what must be sleep, with his eyes shut so tight. Wisps of hair curl close to the top of his head, so pale they almost seem invisible – blond.

Loghain sighs.

“Mind his head,” Maric says as Rowan shifts the child into his arms, with the air of repeating something someone else had said to him. Loghain is grateful for the advice, even so. He doesn’t know anything about babies. When would he have learned?

“His name is Cailan,” Rowan says. “If you like it.”

For the first time in months, Loghain feels the frost in his chest melting.

“A fine name,” he says, trying to conceal the way his voice catches. Rowan lifts her head, smiling beatifically, and anticipates his trembling lips on hers.

 

**VIII.**

“Watch your mama,” Maric says, tickling Cailan’s side.

The three of them – Maric, Cailan, and Loghain – stand outside the training yard, Cailan’s feet perched a little precariously on the wooden fence so that he can see. Loghain holds him steady, hands under his armpits, and watches Rowan flow through her practice drills. You never truly put down your weapons, he thinks. Not when you’re raised the way they were.

“Don’t squirm,” Loghain warns Cailan. “I’ll drop him, Maric, if you keep that up.”

“You wouldn’t. Do you think it’s time we give him his own sword? Wooden, of course, maybe with a little shield… He’ll be two, soon.”

On the field, Rowan pauses mid-swing to cough, covering her mouth with one hand. Waving off the arms master, who takes a tentative step forward, she settles back into her stance, half-crouched. With one chop, she takes the head off a straw-padded dummy.

Cailan claps, his little belly laugh echoing all over the yard. Rowan laughs, too, and gives her son a little bow.

“He can wait,” Loghain says. Let him watch, for a few years longer. Let him live a childhood where he never sees what swords are really for.

Maric tickles Cailan again, just to keep the laugh going. Loghain holds him tight, and he does not fall.

 

**IX.**

“What would we do without you?” Maric asks Loghain one afternoon, smiling up at him. Embarrassed, Loghain turns his head, not quickly enough to miss the upturn of Rowan’s mouth.

“If we’re lucky, my king,” she says, “we shall never have to find out.”

Loghain throws the papers he’d been asked to study on the desk in front of Maric with a noise of disgust. His sovereigns know better. They treat it as if he’d told them he loves them.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to and written for Bianka Kingmaking, for the occasion of her birthday. Reading her series "And Thus Declared the Dragon Age" is both recommended and encouraged.


End file.
